


Resting Place

by OperationBlackSheep



Series: The Valhalla Alternative [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Spoilers, Canonical Character Death, Gen, Picking up the pieces of my broken heart, Spoilers, The Afterlife fic we all deserve after that tragedy, Valhalla
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-28
Updated: 2019-04-28
Packaged: 2020-02-08 15:36:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18626158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OperationBlackSheep/pseuds/OperationBlackSheep
Summary: “Is this - what’s it called, that place Thor always talked about? Valhalla?”“No,” Natasha says. “It’s Fólkvangr.”---In Norse lore, Odin only takes half of the fallen to Valhalla; Freya takes the other half to Fólkvangr.





	Resting Place

**Author's Note:**

> I always thought that Valhalla was the only heroic afterlife in Norse mythology, but that’s not the case - half the the fallen warriors go to Odin’s hall in Valhalla, and half go to Freya’s hall in Fólkvangr. 
> 
> Something about this felt really right to me, so here’s my vastly under-researched interpretation of the Norse afterlife.

The sky above Tony is the odd half-gold of sunset from horizon to horizon. Soft grasses sway at the edges of his vision, brush his hands - his bare hands. Where is his suit, where is-?

Oh.

Tony can’t muster up grief. It’s there, barely perceptible like the whistle of a far-off train, but it remains out of reach. Instead, he feels calm, and warm, and his body doesn’t ache the way it has for so long, and when he breathes the sweet air fills him up and leaves him buoyant.

A shadow leans over him. He blinks, trying to focus on Natasha's face above him.

“You did it.”

Yeah.

He means to say it aloud, but it takes a minute to find his voice again as the pain of losing her comes rushing back, fresh anew before the sight of her quells it. A wound scarring over.

“I did it,” he slurs. He takes the hand she offers, and he sits up to see a field of grain spread around him. The earth curves down into a valley, where ancient oaks cluster into a forest that scales the opposite hill like a great verdant beast. Distantly, he hears the gushing of a river, and he glimpses it through the trees as it twists toward a far-off sea. The water glitters with a distinctly un-hellish beauty. “So, now - heaven?”

The corner of Natasha’s mouth lifts. “In a way.”

When she pulls him to his feet, he finally _sees_ her: the thick red hair reaching to her waist, the seafoam-green tunic that falls to her knees. The lines etched by grief and exhaustion have smoothed themselves away, and her eyes are alight like he’s never seen before.

“You look - good,” he says. Then he looks down at himself, and all it takes is a glance at his hands to show the change. Smooth skin, still callused, but unscarred by mechanical labor, by punches thrown or blocked, by the calamitous surge of the stones’ energy. He grabs his collar of his shirt - butter-soft fabric, a deep ochre, nothing he’d ever worn before - and looks underneath, at his chest.

Nothing - no circle of scar tissue left by the arc reactor, no jagged line reminding him of Thanos’ blow-

Natasha’s hand rests on his arm. “You okay?”

“I’m peachy,” he says. And he is: that warm, comfortable glow resounding in his body hasn’t faded away. He raises a hand to his face, and yeah, at least he’s still got his goatee.

A thought bubbles up through the haze in his head, and Tony covers Natasha’s hand with his own. “What you did, for Clint-”

Saying the name, he half-expects everything to come rushing in, all the suffering and loss that lingers at the periphery. He waits for a flash of pain across Natasha’s face. Instead, she gives him a wistful smile.

“We’ll see him again. When it’s time, we’ll see them all again.” She links her arm with his. “Come on. There’s someone who explains it a little better than I can.”

As they turn together, Tony sees the top of the hill for the first time. An enormous structure adorns the crest, all glimmering pillars and marble, and he stares for a long moment before he says, “Is this - what’s it called, that place Thor always talked about? Valhalla?”

“No,” Natasha says. “It’s Fólkvangr.”

“Bless you.”

“Valhalla belongs to Odin," her voice takes on a measured tone, as though reciting a lesson. "He gets half the warriors, and they go to his hall where they celebrate their battles for all eternity. But the others - the ones who’ve been fighting so long they can barely remember a life before war - they go to rest. They go to Freya.”

A woman waits for them in the doorway, dressed in teal and silver, with two coils of greying chestnut hair. She opens her arms to him, and when he gets close enough, he sees her eyes glisten.

She takes him into an embrace of silk and delicate perfume. “Thank you,” she whispers, “for saving my son.”

He hugs her back, and it feels like sunlight pouring over him, into him, pure warmth and love and light, and his eyes burn.

“My family,” he chokes, because even though the pain of it is still far away, the love is there, threatening to overwhelm him: love for Morgan, for Pepper, for Rhodey, Peter, Happy, Bruce-

“They are well. Because of you, they will know peace.”

Tony shuts his eyes as tight as he can and holds on to her for a long, anchoring moment.

When they step inside the hall, he finds that the entryway itself is a hundred feet tall and wide, its walls alive with tapestries and crystal lights.

"You must have questions." Freya's voice manages to be both regal and kind.

"Understatement," Tony says, and she smiles.

With a wave of her hand, she casts a shimmering net into the air. Tony watches it coalesce into terrain that stretches in all directions: mountains, plains, forests, rivers, lakes, an ocean. In the center is the broad face of a sloping field, crowned by one regal building which turns out to be surrounded by a smattering of smaller halls.

"This is Fólkvangr," Freya tells him. When she steps into the golden map, it parts for her like mist, sending spark-like particles dancing into the air. "My domain. A far cry from my husband's place, with his thatched roof of shields, spears for rafters, and a wolf-skin hanging at the door. Here, we do not celebrate war. This is a resting place.”

“A final resting place?” Tony asks. He can’t help think thinking of his mother, who despite her virtues, could never be categorized as a warrior.

“Only if you wish it. Some choose to move on from here.”

A rushing-water sound rises as they speak, a flood of voices approaching. Tony takes a step back, but it’s only muscle-memory; there’s no real fear.

"Ah," Freya says, "your brethren have learned of your arrival."

Tony sends a quick look to Natasha, but she shakes her head. "Not them - the other warriors. We watched the final battle, all of it."

Freya rests a hand on his shoulder. “The best warriors of every generation. People who saw their descendants and their loved ones turned to dust by the mad titan. They witnessed your sacrifice. They wish to thank you.”

The vast, gilt-crusted doors at the far end of the hall are flung open, and the crowd, already halfway-hoarse, lets out an almighty roar. They stream forward, sobbing and shouting such raw gratitude that Tony can barely breathe.

Then they’re upon him, lifting him to their shoulders, cheering and thanking and weeping as they cry out: “ _Stark! Stark! Stark!_ ”

And when they lift Natasha beside him, she grabs his hand for balance and holds on, squeezing once, her eyes shining.

You did it, she says again, but the din is such that he can only read the words from her lips. For the first time, he feels their full meaning ringing through him like churchbells, like gunfire, like repulsors blasting and the echoes of a hammer striking a shield and the almighty flash that ended the end of everything.

“ _You_ did it,” he says, gripping her hand tighter. He can feel the urgent joy in the air, feel it in the arms that raise him up; he can taste the ecstatic _relief_ of a world, a universe, an infinity made whole. Reborn.

They raise their joined hands to the sky, and the warriors surrounding them shout louder and louder until the hall shakes beneath their feet and the crush of noise and jubilation threatens to tear them apart.

Tony closes his eyes, clutches Natasha’s hand.

_We did it._

**Author's Note:**

> As I deal with My Endgame Emotions, I'll add to these stories. Even though I reject Tony's death with every fiber of my being, because he deserved so much better and so much more, I need to make this okay in my mind or I'll go crazy.
> 
> It's up to us now. His story is ours to continue. Let's make it a good one.
> 
> Cheers,  
> BlackSheep


End file.
